The Gown(15)

Her gloves were white, her shoes were shining, and her hat, an elegant oval of finely woven black straw, sat on her head just so. Her portfolio was filled with samples of her work, a reference from Maison Rébé, and, most precious of all, the letter of recommendation from Christian Dior.

The morning after her arrival, exactly nine weeks ago, she had compiled a list of the best fashion designers in London. For this she had relied on Monsieur Dior’s suggestions, which she had supplemented with addresses from a copy of British Vogue. She had eaten a fortifying and quite disgusting breakfast of porridge and weak tea, had dressed in the garments she had prepared the night before, and had set out to conquer London.

The first name on her list had been Lachasse. She’d been certain they would offer her a position on the spot, for her credentials were impeccable, her samples proved that she was capable of working at the highest level, and she had that coveted letter from Monsieur Dior.

It had all counted for nothing.

The woman who had answered the door, wearing a frock that any self-respecting Frenchwoman would have instantly consigned to the rubbish bin, had been impatient and irritable, and twice she’d asked Miriam to repeat herself. “I can’t understand what you’re saying. This is England, you know. You need to learn proper English.”

Miriam’s nerves had got the better of her. She’d lost words that she ought to have known, she had begun to stammer, and altogether she had sounded like an utter fool.

“We’re not looking for embroiderers,” the woman had finally said. “Best try your luck elsewhere.”

Undeterred, she had proceeded to Hardy Amies on Savile Row, the second establishment on Monsieur Dior’s list. Miriam had gone to the staff entrance and asked to see the head of embroidery. The man at the door had told her they weren’t hiring.

Her next stop had been at Charles Creed in Knightsbridge. This time she’d been ushered inside and instructed to wait for someone from the embroidery workroom. A woman had appeared after nearly a half hour, and it was evident, from her pinched expression and clipped words, that she was annoyed by the interruption. Before Miriam had finished introducing herself, the woman had cut her off.

“Do you have any English training or experience? No? Then we’re not interested.”

By the end of the day she had also been turned away from the workrooms of Victor Stiebel, Digby Morton, Peter Russell, Michael Sherard, and Bianca Mosca. No one had wanted an embroiderer. No one had cared to hear of her training and experience. No one had given her the chance to so much as mention her letter of reference from Monsieur Christian Dior.

Miriam had scuttled back to her hotel room and had perched on the edge of her bed and had stared at nothing for hours. When the worst of her panic had subsided she had opened her little notebook, the one into which she had copied the list of designers Monsieur Dior had given her, together with addresses for their London workrooms. Only then had she noticed that two of its pages had been stuck together, and she had somehow managed to skip over the first name on the list.

Norman Hartnell. The designer who, according to Monsieur Dior, had the best embroidery workroom in England.

She had seen pictures of the gowns Monsieur Hartnell made for the English queen, the grand crinolines and softly serene day dresses that weren’t especially chic but suited her so well. Surely his premières would appreciate someone with her training and experience.

It had been stupid and foolhardy to persevere after that deplorable woman at Lachasse had rejected her, and she had only compounded her stupidity by working her way through every name on her list but one. It had left her teetering at the edge of a precipice, and if she were to stumble . . .

She would take a step back. Take the time to polish up her English, immerse herself in its awkward idioms and ridiculous grammar, and sand away the veneer of desperation that had tainted her brief conversations at every workroom she had visited that day.

She would take some of the money Monsieur Dior had given her, and she would buy herself some time.

Two days later she had moved to cheaper lodgings, a dismal little pension in Ealing that charged the same for a week as did the hotel for a single night, and then she had set about practicing her English. After breakfast each day she had gone to the Italian café near the Underground entrance, had bought a coffee—it was far nicer there than at the Lyons and A.B.C. cafés that seemed to be on every corner—and had eavesdropped on the other customers, writing down words she didn’t understand so she might look them up later. Most afternoons she had gone to the cinema, silently parroting the actors’ words under the cover of darkness, trying to make sense of the strange idioms they used.

And everywhere she had gone, though it grated at her solitary soul, she had engaged people in conversation: the other women in the breakfast room at her pension, the man who sold newspapers on the corner, even the sweetly flirtatious waiter at the Italian café, though his English was worse than hers.

It had taken her more than two months, but now she was ready. Today she would try again.

Checking her A to Z to ensure she was heading in the right direction, Miriam set off for Mayfair, alighting at Bond Street station. Ten minutes later she turned onto Bruton Place, her heart pounding, her hands clammy beneath her gloves.

It was easy to find the staff entrance to Hartnell, for a gleaming delivery lorry was parked about halfway along the mews, and a series of enormous white boxes were being loaded into its open back doors. A man in a white coat was checking the boxes off against a list, his expression so serious he might have been in charge of delivering chests of gold bullion. Rather than interrupt, Miriam hung back and waited for him to finish.